


Last Orders

by koldtblod



Category: Young Dracula (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, And just in case any MI5 agents are watching my every move..., Crack, Feel like pure shit just want Bertrand back, Gen, Just wanted the tag, Never have I ever drank underage in a pub, Things I'd like to see in the show, Unfortunately he's not in this, Vlad is probs still 17 but let's be real - local pubs in the UK don't care about ID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koldtblod/pseuds/koldtblod
Summary: Spicy cocktails, tequila shots, questionable karaoke performances; just another night in the unlife of the Draculas, and what could possibly go wrong?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Last Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was inspired stupidly by the beginning S5Ep6 (when Malik is back and everyone is parading around the dining table) and also because my flatmate and I like to brainstorm and come up with silly scenarios. This time, notably, it was him saying one evening, "D'you think the Count has ever been drunk?" And then we got on about a Dracula family trip down to the pub, who would be drinking what, and the like.
> 
> ("Stop! What are you doing, you cretin?" from S1 is a commonly used phrase around our flat.)

Vlad didn't know how he'd allowed himself to be talked into this, but someone – he couldn't remember who – had suggested it might well be fun and then, ridiculously, The Count had agreed. No one had been able to let the subject drop until Vlad relented, pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a jacket, and now he was suffering the humiliation of watching his father tetter around the very quiet, very respectable little pub with a cocktail in hand and trying to engage the locals in conversation.

The Count wouldn't usually have consented to the consumption of alcohol but after perusing the drinks menu, he'd settled on a Bloody Mary, determined, after all, that anything with a woman's name and blood in the title was sure to be something he'd enjoy.

Once upon a time, Vlad would have loved this.

A chance to be normal, a night to forget that he was really a vampire was, of course, all he'd ever wanted, however usually in his fantasies the rest of his family were quite normal too.

Ingrid was on her sixth shot of tequila, pouring it straight without lemon or salt from the bottle that she'd ordered, and Malik was trying desperately to keep up. He had bragged on the walk to the pub that he would drink Ingrid under the table but so far it wasn't looking likely. Ingrid appeared more interested in feasting on the necks on the young patrons seated one table over, from the looks she was giving them, than sustaining a conversation with Malik, though he hadn't exactly noticed. Malik kept jabbing his finger as if to illustrate a point, slurring his sentences and was relying on the heft of the table between them to keep him upright.

If Vlad attuned his hearing above the folksy music drifting from the speakers, he could hear Malik garble,

"And I think – if I hadn't tried to kill you – we could conquer the world."

Ingrid would've usually been rolling her eyes but instead, she was exchanging a sly grin with another boy beside the bar. She poured herself a new drink, slid the bottle over to Malik and rose gracefully to her feet.

Renfield, of course, had found the dartboard. He was arguably the most sound of the lot aside from Vlad who sat, quietly in the corner, sipping the last half of his vodka soda. Renfield had only been in the pub for five minutes before he'd challenged a cluster of middle-aged men to a game of Chase The Dragon, and by now was losing quite profoundly, but there were promises of karaoke later in the evening.

_Baby One More Time,_ _Left Outside Alone,_ _Man! I Feel Like A Woman;_ what was it to be?

It was fair to say that the Dracula's were not very accustomed to drinking – alcohol, at least. Malik was a wreck, Ingrid's subtly had all but sprouted wings and flapped out of the window, and as for the Count... Well. Vlad was only too pleased that the whole sorry scenario had been a rather last-minute decision on his part, and for that reason alone there hadn't been time to invite their old Headmistress, Alex McCauley, down for a couple of hours. Vlad thought now that, somehow, Miss McCauley would be better off to remember his father as the pompous but charming owner of Garside Grange, as opposed to this drunken fool cavorting about the pub, tripping over table legs and generally causing a nuisance.

"Another drink, Vladdy!" yelled the Count from across the room, lifting his empty glass in a show of triumph. "Join me in a toast!"

The last thing they needed.

The landlady was glaring wearily into the side of the Count's head and Vlad could tell that by now, she, too, was fed up with his father's tomfoolery. To the family's credit, there hadn't been so much of a flash of fang since they arrived, but the locals clearly weren't used to newcomers stumbling around their pub which quite so much gusto. The landlady's expression seemed only to darken when the Count clicked his fingers in her direction, demanding,

"Another of your finest beverages, peasant!"

And Vlad was almost sure, from what he'd heard, that most pubs in Britain came equipt with a baseball bat beneath the counter from the more troublesome of customers.

"One more," he insisted, as he joined his father beside the bar, "and then we go home. You're drunk as it is, and Malik can't stand –"

"Oh, nonsense!" said the Count. "I'm the Prince of Darkness. I think I can handle a couple of drinks."

"You aren't getting any younger –"

"Be £7.20."

"What?"

"For the drinks," said the landlady. "Last order's at 11."

She nodded towards the clock and Vlad suppressed a groan. Quarter past 9 – he had hoped it was later. The Count had a simpering grin fixed to his face as he patted down his pockets, feigning the air of someone searching for a wallet.

"I'll warn you right now," said the landlady tersely, "we don't tolerate hooligans, so if there's any more shoutin' and muckin' about – "

"Sorry," said Vlad, as he dashed a £10 note onto the counter. "Dad doesn't get out much."

"Aye, I can see that."

"Keep the change," Vlad told her.

Cackling proudly, as if between them they'd conquered an argument, the Count wrapped an arm around Vlad's shoulders and led him briskly away from the bar. At least, to his merit, the Count seemed in extremely good spirits; or perhaps that was the alcohol, thrumming through his veins. Regardless, Vlad thanked his lucky rabbits – or however the saying went – that the Count hadn't sniped back at the landlady and they'd been allowed to go back to their seats with little more than a pointed look.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Ingrid, talking closely with the boy she'd been eyeing, and Malik trying to slink his way into a conversation with two elderly men.

The Count chuckled happily.

"This Blood of Mary is really quite delicious," he was saying with relish. "Whoever knew the breathers would invent a thing like this."

"It's _Bloody Mary_ ," said Vlad, and then shook himself around. "Nevermind. What are we toasting?"

"To the deaths of our enemies," said the Count.

Vlad shook his head.

"To the good of our health," he decided instead.

He had barely touched the rim of the glass to his lips when, much to his dismay, the lights were lowered, the music in the background cut off mid-song and Renfield's shrill giggles were heard amplified through a karaoke microphone.

"For your evening entertainment now," another man with a deeper voice and weathered face was saying, from the makeshift stage at the front of the pub, "we kick off with a bit of Kylie."

*

Vlad had expected the ground to swallow him up – at least that's what he'd hoped for initially, before the terrible rendition of _Can't Get You Out Of My Head_ had begun. Luckily, the ridiculousness of it all had seemed to bolster the atmosphere of the quiet little pub, and so instead of facing the disgust and disappointment of the locals, Vlad found himself instead drawn into their throngs. A young woman had got up, shortly after Renfield, declaring merrily,

"I'll be of no match for that!"

and sang loudly along to ABBA's _Waterloo_ with only half of the eyes in the room upon her.

Renfield had come happily back to the Count's side, shaking hands with many a patron on his way, and after the Count had expressed his joy at the new choice of song, chatting animatedly about how it took him back –

"To the June of 1815, no doubt!"

– he had managed to strike up an amicable, or even friendly, discussion with the two elderly men that Malik had tried to engage earlier in the evening.

A card game had also started up around one of larger tables, and for this Malik had pulled himself together. He was still definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, absolutely shitfaced, thought Vlad with a grin, as he watched his brother's elbow slip drunkenly off the edge of the table, but by now his opponents were halfway through their fourth and fifth pints of lager and thought it all amusing.

Another of the youngsters took to the stage to perform a rendition of _Africa_ and shortly after that, the landlady, with _Sweet Caroline_ . Vlad was shocked to discover that even Ingrid knew the words or, at least, the most important parts of the song, sing-shouting the ' _duh duh duh's_ ' along with her dance partner as he spun her around on the floor.

It wasn't all bad, he thought, as one of the locals set down another vodka soda in front of him. Vlad felt himself smile dopily. 

*

"I bet you've never met a vampire before," said Ingrid, through a smirk.

The boy shook his head.

"Didn't reckon they existed. First time for everything."

"So you actually believe me?"

"Sure," said the boy.

He reminded her of Will.

There was a pause, then a laugh, and Ingrid slapped him on the arm – lightly – for having mocked her.

"You don't half talk some shit," said the boy, "but I like you lot!"

*

"You fold," slurred Malik confidently.

The man beside him was shaking his head.

"That's Poker," said Sharon, "not Rummy!"

*

"'Ere, you!"

"Me?" asked Vlad.

"Why's your dad keep callin' everyone 'peasant'?"

"Clash of cultures!" said Vlad quickly. "Means nothing by it."

"Well can you tell 'im to stop orderin' rounds if he doesn't 'ave the money to pay!"

Vlad snorted and brought out his wallet.

"How much does he owe you?" he asked the landlady.

*

"I haven't had this much fun," declared the Count, unabashed, "since I was 204!"

*

"One more song, Percy!" cheered Gareth.

"Oh," gushed Renfield, "I'm all sung out!"

" _Islands in the Stream_ , with our Jodie! C'mon, she loves that song."

"I suppose one more couldn't hurt..."

*

The bell rung for last orders, and an hour later the clock struck midnight. Slowly the Dracula's reconvened, as the landlady began giving the orders for everyone to leave.

"Oh, yes," the Count shouted, over his shoulder as Vlad staggered beneath him. "Cyril, I will indeed be seeing you next week!"

"Dad, use your feet!" begged Vlad.

He was struggling to stay upright himself, after one too many vodkas and with the Count's extra weight bearing down on top of him. He secured his grip on his father's wrist, hoisting him up and attempting to lead him in a straight line down the road.

"Catch you Friday!" chortled the elderly man, as he turned in the opposite direction with his friend.

Ingrid, inexcusably proud of herself, was clutching a paper napkin in her hand with the phone number of the boy she'd danced with inked into the right-hand corner. Malik and Renfield, somewhere behind, also had their arms around each other – something which Vlad was sure Malik wouldn't be pleased about, if he remembered, come the following evening – and Malik was insisting,

"You know, you're the only constant in my unlife!"

"We're all going to feel this," Vlad told the family, after tripping down the pavement as they made to cross the road.

And he was right.

The Count spent the best part of the next evening throwing up, however promptly ordered Renfield, who alone had avoided a hangover, down to the local Sainsbury's to pick up some tomato juice and Tabasco. Ingrid swore that she wasn't affected, but Vlad knew for sure there'd been four painkillers left in the packet as opposed to two, before she'd exited the bathroom with an uncomfortable grimace of her face.

Malik told everyone he was never drinking again.

"Neither am I," said the Count sullenly. Back to his usual self. "Until next week, of course," he added, "when I'm meeting the boys for a tipple."

**Author's Note:**

> There are three months left of this godawful year and I'm missing shite karaoke like crazy.


End file.
